


An Octopus’s Garden of Earthly Delights

by thesaddestboner



Series: Octoporn [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Crack, Curses, Detroit Red Wings, Dubious Consent, Magic, Octopi & Squid, Octoporn, Other, Passive-Aggressive Mocking, Tentacle Sex, The Author Regrets Everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-28
Updated: 2008-04-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 04:40:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Beware things that go bump in the arena.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Octopus’s Garden of Earthly Delights

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why I'm even posting this here. This was originally written to terrify and disturb people, clearly. I'll never escape it.
> 
> I wuz peer pressured by [**backcheck**](http://backcheck.livejournal.com/) and [**cradle_song**](http://cradle_song.livejournal.com/)! D: Also, my kingdom for the ability to write _serious, non-crack_ hockey fic. I also tried to nail some bad non-con tropes while I was at it, too. Um. Bad phrasing, but you know what I mean. Unbeta’d, obvs. WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME.
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

Henrik Zetterberg stepped onto the ice and knocked over a dented silver bucket of pucks. The black rubber disks spilled across the sleek white ice surface and Zetterberg picked one out, skating with it at the end of his stick blade.

The cavernous Joe Louis Arena was eerily quiet and empty for a game day—a playoff game at that. The rest of Zetterberg’s teammates were not expected to arrive for pre-game skate for nearly an hour. Zetterberg intended on taking advantage of this free time.

Zetterberg felt a cool breeze ruffle through his hair and he glanced up. The purple underside of the team’s mascot, Al the Octopus, hung suspended from the rafters, swaying gently in the inexplicable breeze. Zetterberg shivered involuntarily and turned his attention back to his stick and the puck.

As Zetterberg weaved around on the ice, cutting figure-eights with the puck dangling from his stick, he heard the slow, nails-on-chalkboard scraping of metal gears against metal gears. Zetterberg looked up.

Someone, probably Al Sobotka, the arena manager, was lowering the giant octopus mascot from the ceiling rafters. The octopus had recently been spraypanted a fresh coat of purple so that it gleamed under the lights. Its mouth was twisted into a sneer that Zetterberg couldn’t help but find the slightest bit menacing.

“Al?” he called out.

Sobotka didn’t respond. Zetterberg watched warily as the octopus landed on the ice, over the painted-on blue goal crease with a heavy _thunk_. The octopus’ preternaturally bright eyes were fixed squarely on Zetterberg.

He turned his back to the octopus and skated in the opposite direction, practicing his moves with the puck on an imaginary goalie.

Zetterberg thought he heard something scraping across the ice surface and he whirled around; no one was there, just the octopus mascot. It sneered at him from across the ice, its tentacles reaching out for him in-- _No!_ Zetterberg thought, shaking his head. _That’s ridiculous. It’s just a mascot, made out of—plastic, papier-machê, whatever. It’s_ not _reaching out for me._

Zetterberg listened for the scattered, far-off voices of his teammates, listened signs of their arrival, but he heard nothing. The only sounds he heard were his labored breathing—why was he so nervous?—and the breeze batting around in the arena rafters overhead.

And the scraping . . .

Zetterberg squinted—was the mascot _moving_?

He laughed at how ridiculous he was acting, and turned his attention back to practice. He had obviously let his mind run free. He reigned it back in and turned his thoughts to the Colorado Avalanche, and what he would have to do to help his team beat them to advance in the playoffs. He couldn’t afford to let his mind wander to trivial things such as the creepy looking mascot.

Zetterberg had finally exhausted himself and stooped to pick up the puck. He felt something tug lightly at the back of his hockey pants and he spun around. The only one there, besides Zetterberg, was the octopus. Zetterberg swallowed hard, tightening his hands around his stick. 

“Who—who’s there?” he asked. His voice trembled the way he knees would have, had he not steeled his joints.

There was no answer.

Zetterberg approached the octopus cautiously, holding his stick in front of him as his last line of defense if the thing decided to come after him. Which was patently ridiculous; there was no way his graphite composite would be able to stave off an attack from a giant octopus-- _Stop being so fucking ridiculous, Hank_ , Zetterberg reminded himself, as he neared the mascot.

The octopus, nicknamed Al in honor of its caretaker Sobotka, remained in place, his fixed sneer looking even more menacing and sinister under the arena lighting. The glint of the lighting off Al’s teeth made his smile look positively _carnivorous_. It sent a chill down Zetterberg’s spine.

He came to a skidding stop in front of Al the octopus and studied him silently, looking for signs of life. The octopus didn’t move. Maybe he really _had_ just been imagining things. One’s mind could play all sorts of tricks when one was open to it.

Zetterberg shook his head and skated over to the bench to gather up the spilled pucks and put them back in the metal bucket. As he tarried away at his task, he felt something tug on the back of his pants again. Zetterberg stiffened—the only one in the arena with him was the octopus—and glanced slowly over his shoulder.

The octopus’ tentacle was extended, and its frightening, bright eyes were focused directly on him!

Zetterberg gasped and dropped the bucket. The pucks hit the ice and rolled away; he didn’t bother to scramble after them. He was held in place by Al’s penetrating stare and his glowering visage, and the tentacle clutching to the waistband of his hockey pants.

“What the—” Zetterberg grabbed onto the octopus’ thick, purple tentacle and tried to rip it off of his pants, but it wouldn’t let go. It was gripping on too tightly. “Let go!” _As if it’ll listen to you, idiot_ , Zetterberg chastised himself, trying to yank himself away.

The octopus shifted closer, curling its appendage firmly around Zetterberg’s waist. He stared at its grinning mouth, heart stuttering in his chest.

“It’s going to devour me,” he gasped aloud, still clutching on for dear life.

The octopus didn’t stuff Zetterberg into its mouth and chow down, though. It curled him closer, caressing his rough, bearded cheek lightly before another tentacle slithered into the waistband of his pants.

Zetterberg swallowed hard. His pants loosened and dropped to the ice. “Help! Guys!” he cried out, but no one came. The arena was completely empty, save Zetterberg and this—thing. Whatever it was. _Where the hell are the guys_ , he wondered.

Something pressed, slick and cool, against his backside.

“Oh no,” Zetterberg cried. He bit onto the tentacle that was wrapped around his chest, but it did nothing to impede the octopus’ groping. It probably didn’t even feel it.

The slick, cool something was wriggling its way between his cheeks. _Was the octopus going to—to—_ Zetterberg couldn’t allow himself to finish that thought.

“Let me go!” He demanded, pounding on the gripping tentacle. “Let _go_!” When the octopus did not free him, Zetterberg clenched his muscles, refusing to give but an inch.

The tentacle forced its way past Zetterberg’s last line of defense. Zetterberg cried out—the pain was almost blinding. It seared through his aching ass, through his nerve endings, straight to his overwhelmed brain. The octopus wriggled its tentacle cruelly, its mouth twisting into a sadistic grin. It was clearly enjoying this. Zetterberg swore he could hear the thing _laughing_ at him as it ravaged him with its slimy, groping tentacles.

Zetterberg grunted, determinedly trying to wriggle out of the octopus’ grip. However, the more he wriggled, the more aroused the octopus seemed to be getting, if it was possible for once-inanimate objects to get aroused. The octopus aimed its tentacle for Zetterberg’s prostate and Zetterberg let out a cry. How could anything this horrible and degrading feel so good?

Suddenly, the doors leading from the lockerroom to the ice surface blew open and Mike Babcock marched out. The head coach paused behind the bench and surveyed the scene before him.

“Mike,” Zetterberg gasped, out of breath. “Thank God you’re here!”

“Hank,” Babcock said, setting a black boombox down on the bench. He pressed a button and Barry White began to croon from the speakers. “How was practice?”

Zetterberg stared down at his coach, suspended in midair, entangled in the tentacles of a ravenous, raping giant octopus. “Mike,” he said. “A little help here?”

Babcock looked up. “Oh, right, that. I meant to explain it before you went on for your pre-game skate.”

“Explain _what_ \-- oh fuck.” Zetterberg began to squirm away from the tentacles again.

“Some pissed off Avs fan cursed us and brought Al the Octopus to life.”

“I noticed. Wh-- _fuck_!” The octopus nailed Zetterberg’s sweet spot and the Red Wing cried out in a mixture of tortured pain and ecstasy.

Babcock pulled a face. “Should I just come back when you two are finished—”

“ _No_!” Zetterberg howled. “Do _something_! _Save_ me!”

“The only thing that’s going to stop him is bringing you to an orgasm.” Babcock turned up the volume on the boombox, Barry White sang huskily about how _sometimes you need lovin' morning, noon and night_.

“That’s a load of shit,” Zetterberg snapped, slapping at one of the octopus’ tentacles. “Stop it! No, bad octopus!”

“Sorry, ’s the rules.” Babcock started back for the lockerroom.

“You can’t leave me with this thing,” Zetterberg cried.

“Think of it as taking one for the team, Hank,” said Babcock. “We’ll be ensured a series win if you give the octopus what it wants, which is your ass.”

Zetterberg hung limply in the air, his arms and legs dangling. “A series win?” he asked.

Babcock nodded.

Zetterberg glanced back at the octopus. “Well.”

“That’s my boy.” Babcock left the two alone to their devices, Barry White still singing in the background, and shut the doors heavily behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


End file.
